


morning without warning

by smithens



Series: en l'année 1830 [5]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Hugolian Dialogue, M/M, References to Illness, Requited Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, references to injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9979652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Progress is slow-coming: with bodily recovery from injury, and with fractured intimate relationships.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is metaphorical & taken with love from joanna newsom's song clam, crab, cockle, cowrie.
> 
> 'hugolian dialogue' tag also taken with love, from what i'm pretty sure was a les mis kink meme prompt for something i decidedly do not ship. (it's also an actual phrase in a 19th century cambridge review.)

Feuilly leaves just as Combeferre manages to lower his voice, quickly pulling the door shut behind him.

But Combeferre still catches a glance at Courfeyrac, looking crestfallen, in the adjacent room of the flat. He fidgets silently on the end of the bed, leaning from one side to the other but careful not to touch Enjolras - upright - beside him. 

Hearing Enjolras’s pointed sigh does not help matters, nor does the sudden press of his hand upon his leg: at that, he ceases fidgeting, and stills, tense, instead. The weight of Enjolras’s touch is familiar, but something about their position feels off.

Then Enjolras murmurs his name, with the calm tone he uses when extending a verbal olive branch, and Combeferre looks at him helplessly.

He hasn’t been called ‘citizen’ since the worst night of fever, when Enjolras might well have been delirious. Whether the replacement use of his name is something to be pleased with or not is a conundrum. Enjolras uses it both to be stern and to be personal. Perhaps, Combeferre has told himself, it is nothing. Still: perhaps also to call him anything else is too political, too much a reminder - and he himself has pushed from his mind thoughts of Enjolras and politics, when they occur together. Or, he  _ tries _ to: both were all that he could think of, the day prior, as Enjolras bathed, aside from...

“Combeferre,” repeats Enjolras, more firmly. He moves his hand to his own lap. “I am not partial to your suggestion that I am unaware of what you have done for me, whether or not it was your intention to say so. By now, surely, you must know that I am completely cognizant of your assistance and wholly grateful for it.”

In days past Enjolras has repeated that word, grateful, over and over, as though if he says it enough Combeferre will finally understand whatever meaning he won’t say outright - as though it will soften what they both know already. It is not like Enjolras to be indirect, with praise or with criticism.

The fact of the matter is that Combeferre already does understand the extent of Enjolras’s gratitude, and likely also his reasons for expressing this instead of his frustration. He understands, too, that no one else has received such fragile regard. Part of it angers him, but he does understand - and so Combeferre knows that he cannot approach their situation so rationally as Enjolras can, not when he requires reflection on the depth of his arisen emotion, on what grievances he has caused.

And it is Enjolras, not him, who has his share of grievances to air.

“Do I wish that you were more evident in your means? Of course. Yet still it stands that I should have been dead in the street weeks ago had you and our fellows not intervened. It is not illogical you might feel protective of my well-being. That feeling is mutual. Is it illogical, either, that hosting a - a friend, an intimate one, with threads of dispute left untied impose stress on a man? I think not. And, you have plenty of other obligations and worries to occupy your thoughts. I understand those worries now to be resolved, you told me so, yet you avoid a discourse. Ought I believe you incapable of explaining yourself, when you have done so eloquently in the past? I have already forgiven you. I blame you for nothing. Let us talk, then. I assumed - yesterday, Combeferre, I assumed that your affection for me was motivation enough to mend our -”

There is a knock on the door: Courfeyrac’s, by the pattern.

Enjolras quiets, stands. This time, Combeferre does not enquire after his leg. He walks to the door with stiff gait, free of a limp; the few words he says through the door are inaudible from the bed. 

Combeferre stands as well, but stays in place.

Enjolras turns at the door looking a little perplexed, and Combeferre tries his best to look directly at him: not at his strained leg, not at his arm in a sling.

Their eyes meet.

“Courfeyrac requests our appearance at supper.”

“Yes, euh, he asked that your landlady cook bouillabaisse,” Combeferre says, attempting airiness. He blinks away the pressure of tears in his eyes, but they had already begun to fall at the thought of Enjolras a mortality of the Three Glorious Days, and now he is unable to stop them. Enjolras’s expression does not change, even as he chokes out his words.“She seemed anxious to see you - asked quite a few questions about your absence, he told me. She did not hear us come in last night, and apparently the porter said nothing. We were discrete.”

A pause. He breathes. Words spill from his mouth before he can stop them, a long-time symptom of his agitation.

“Courfeyrac also conjured a story, allegedly a delightful one, but I suppose it isn’t unlikely that she has suspected all along - alas! We must have caused great agony keeping you away caused her, even if we did send a note - but you are alive, aren’t you, and that fact alone seems to have pacified her for now. ”

Combeferre adjusts his spectacles only for something to do with his hands, then takes them off to wipe them with his kerchief: one lens is spotted with tears.

When he puts them back on, Enjolras looks contemplative. “Bouillabaisse? She is from  _ Normandy _ , Combeferre.” 

But he seems to accept the suggestion of food.

Combeferre approaches him. He has the uncomfortable sensation that his pounding heart will rise into his throat, no matter how anatomically improbable.

Enjolras takes hold of his forearm once they are nearer together, strokes his thumb along the vein, and whether he then pulls Combeferre closer or move forward himself or both at once Combeferre cannot know, but he speaks softly into his ear:

“You are my dearest friend and comrade, Combeferre, and this between us is not an impassable obstacle.”

For a brief moment, their cheeks touch. Combeferre inhales and exhales, and feels Enjolras do the same: they are exactly synchronous.

Then Enjolras releases him, and opens the door.

**Author's Note:**

> alternate tag: Regional Soup Elitism - Freeform (as opposed to Character)
> 
> alternate alternate tag: Being The Philosophy Of A Thing Is Less Fun When It Makes You Constantly Overthink Your Relationship With And Intimate Feelings For Your Highly Logic-Oriented Best Friend Whom You [Gave A Bath](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8427535) Literally Yesterday
> 
> comments & kudos greatly appreciated. <3


End file.
